Drop Your Defenses
by LuckyDuck932
Summary: Five kids - a Nice Guy, a Fat Kid, a Princess, an Overachiever, and a Technomaniac - who live worlds apart are forced to spend their Saturday serving detention. They only see each other as the labels they have been given by their classmates, but by day's end they end up discovering there's more below the surface. An AU based on the John Hughes film "The Breakfast Club."
1. Innocent

**AN: Lately my sister and I were talking a lot about the characterizations of the kids of**_** Charlie and the Chocolate Factory**_** because I just found the London Cast recording and have been in love and swimming in childhood nostalgia. It's interesting to see how the kids change yet stay similar in every interpretation. In our conversations, my sister might have said how similar the kids are to those in the classic movie **_**The Breakfast Club**_** - there are five, each with a sort of "label" that defines them to everyone in high school but there is something deeper down. Most of these characters (referring to the 4 bad kids) get little if absolutely no development and so I thought it would be interesting to take the concept of the John Huges movie and fuse it was my favorite Roald Dahl story. The title is from the famed theme of the movie "Don't You (Forget About Me)" by the band**_**, Simple Minds**_**.**

**This of course is a HUGE AU where the kids all live in the same town, go to the same school, and is set in true current day, and the Wonka Tour never happened (fortunately and unfortunately).**

**Drop Your Defenses**

_**Saturday, March 22**__**nd**__**, 2014**_

_**Dear Mr. Turkentine,**_

_**We have accepted that we had to spend an entire Saturday here for whatever we did wrong. But we think you're insane for making us write an essay about who we think we are. What do you care? You see us in the simplest of terms, the most convenient of definitions. You see us as a Nice Guy, a Fat Kid, a Princess, an Athlete, and a Technomaniac, correct? That's the way we saw each other before 7:00 am this morning.**_

Innocent.

That's what Charlie was. A victim of scholastic injustice, convicted of a crime he didn't commit – would never commit.

His moral compass had been tuned strongly from a very young age by his parents who always encouraged him to listen to his conscience and do the right thing; life lessons were as filling to the soul as the dinner they might have lacked on the table, the Bucket family believed.

But what did his compass point to when some (gravely ill with senioritis) guy tried to copy Charlie's chemistry lab work and through some ironic twist of justice, and it was the cheated who appeared to be the cheater? He was the one who was wronged and the teacher wouldn't listen to Charlie's case. It was too late to argue. This happened later Friday afternoon so it left Charlie no time to try and reason with his teacher. The metaphorical gavel had been slammed, a quick sentencing that left the sixteen-year-old with a yellow detention slip in his hand that summoned him to serve his time Saturday morning, 7 am to 3 pm.

When he went home to tell his mother and father what happened, they weren't angered by Charlie's call for detention the next day; they knew he was innocent after he explained the situation although the truth never prevailed. But when he asked about what he should do about it all?

They suggested he just go to detention and get it all behind him.

"It's not worth the trouble now," Mrs. Bucket had advised as she chopped up the cabbage for dinner that night. "Sometimes it's best to give up the fight."

Truly, there was nothing _they_ could do so late in trying to protest against a teacher's unfair ruling.

And that was how, at 6:45 Saturday morning, Charlie Bucket walked up to his high school's library. Nestled in his (thin) coat and favorite sweater (hand-knitted by Grandma Josephine) he shuddered in the early spring wind, thankful that March is (finally) starting to creep the downy head of a lamb into this (so far) lion of a month.

At least it isn't snowing.

At least there are a few gaps in the thick layer of clouds.

At least the air is fragrant with the aroma of chocolate from the factory looming nearby.

_It could be worse._

In the Bucket family, you learn to become an optimist; "always look on the bright side of life" might as well been made into a fancy needlepoint sample and hung above the crooked door as the clan's motto. When you're a Bucket, you learn to take life as it comes.

So even if he's going to be spending seven hours here in the library for the so-called "breakfast club" fulfilling the punishment for a transgression that never happened – it could be worse.

He could be picking up trash on the highway as detention with a chain-gang.

His mother could have not spared the bread and margarine to make him a sandwich.

He could have been stuck in the cold, moldy school basement sorting through old textbooks and outdated maps instead of in the comfort of the library for detention.

And hey, he was the first one to walk in.

He had his pick of the seats.


	2. Starvation

**AN: ** **Chapter two of **_**Drop Your Defenses **_**follows Augustus' route to detention, and so the next three will follow Veruca, Violet, and Mike. I had a lot of fun writing this portion because Augustus' early-lunch plight was based on my own life (I **_**do**_** have lunch at 10:05 every morning at school but I have never gone to the extreme lengths he has in this story, but I'm often hungry and headachy by the time I get home). Thank you for reading!**

Starvation.

That's what had driven him to the edge.

Having first lunch take place at 10:00 was one of the worst decisions ever made by a school board in the history of school boards reigning over when and when not a student can eat, Augustus Gloop believed.

Despite many-a-visits and notes to his guidance counselors who played with the school scheduling like stretchy putty claimed they had now power in his lunch time. They couldn't go around changing everyone's schedule because an early morning lunch was not convenient! No, Mr. Gloop, you may not eat at a sane time! Do you want me to sign your hall pass?

Now with the stress of having moved from Germany and setting Gloop Metzgerei firmly as a business in a new country was hard enough, Augustus now had to deal with the stress of having his lunch too early in the day and starving through the whole afternoon!

One might think that he would grow accustomed to the strange lunch period, but he never did. He often found himself racing to the vending machine to grab a Wonka bar (or three) before he passed out. Thankfully, these kept his blood sugar up till he could go home and get some _real _ food!

Unfortunately, by some vile aligning of the cosmos, he found himself in a dire situation. That morning the whole Gloop family was somehow thrown off their internal clocks, so Augustus had to race to catch the bus and all his mutter could do was throw a roll of bread and an apple at him as she tried to do her makeup in the kitchen while also making Herr Gloop some coffee before the both of them raced to sign for the delivery of pork.

No cheese. No ham. No soft boiled egg. No cucumbers and tomatoes.

_NOTHING._

It made him want to cry.

But he ate it begrudgingly on the bus and he actually rejoiced in early lunch. Second breakfast, right?

But in the swarm of the morning, he had forgotten to pack a lunch and was totally out of money for the vending machine. He thought maybe what the school offered for suffice but _nein, nein, nein_! It was not even half the size of what he would eat! And so cold and flavorless! Augustus hardly ever regretted putting something in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing it. After all- his insides were made of steel practically, but he didn't even truly enjoy his American cafeteria experience. (He still ate everything on his plate, but he only did that for the sake of making it through this horrific Friday.)

After the lunch catastrophe, Augustus was miserable. Famished, he could barely focus in Algebra (pi equals _pie_), didn't even try to play his tuba in band and nearly fell asleep at the pottery wheel in art class.

It was in English class the effects of starvation started to kick. He felt himself grow pale, sweat began to trickle at the base of his neck and as his stomach quaked, demanding _feeeeddd meeee!_, he felt as though he was going to vomit. A quick mayigotothetoliet and he was out of there.

_Feed me, Gloop! Feed me now!_

He splashed cold water on himself in the boy's bathroom and tried talking to himself to get through this hell. And then he thought it would just be easier to go to the nurse and ask her if she had something to eat before he slipped into oblivion.

As he was walking to office, he saw_ her_.

Just sitting there in the teacher's lounge. All alone, calling his name, teasing him. Dark and luscious and succulent, her chocolate perfume wafting towards him.

He had never seen such a beautiful cake.

Just one bite. . . to get him through the day . . . to get his strength back . . .

One bite turned into the whole damn cake, just shoveling it into his mouth shamelessly – sweet, sweet chocolate taste filling that void. Paradise.

That was . . . until he felt the hot glare of eyes, the sense of another body in the room with an exasperated cry of "MR. GLOOP!"

And that was how Augustus Gloop was doomed for a whole Saturday of detention. Of course, there had been quite a bit of dramatics in between it including and not limited to a call from the principle grieving over the loss of his snack and a letter from the nurse about the dangers of childhood obesity, implying that Augustus didn't need that gorgeous cake as much as he felt he did and Mrs. Gloop's wailing about how her boy was hungry and the school could have prevented this from happening by serving an adequate lunch. But none of their lamenting and lectures could get Augustus Gloop out of getting detention Saturday.

So instead of tying his butcher's apron around his waist and driving with his father at the crack of dawn to pick up a side of beef in their refrigerated meet truck, Augustus standing outside the car  
towards the library, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

"_Liebling_, I'll be here at three on the dot to pick you up!" Mrs. Gloop said in German as reached over to the back seat, pulling out an enormous paper sack and handing it to her son. "And I packed you a few extra sweets. Just to make the day a little more bearable, yes?"

Augustus was thrilled. If anything could make a seven hour detention a little more tolerable, it was candy. Candy could make anything better."Thanks, mama."

Before she drove off, she blew a kiss and said, "Love you!"

Augustus shuffled up to the school library, hoping that maybe the term "breakfast club" had a little bit of truth to it and perhaps they served donuts? Or some other American breakfast sweet he had truly grown to love?

When he got to the library, however, all he was some scrawny kid sitting in behind a desk, who smiled weakly at him. Not a cinnamon bun in sight.

They had lied.


	3. Worthless

**AN: Thank you so much to all for the favorites and follows and the review! They make my day!**

**Chapter Three of **_**Drop Your Defenses**_** follows one of my personal favorite brats, Veruca Salt She was so much fun to write because, hey, how often do you get to write a spoiled diva like her? I matured her character a little bit – she's sixteen in this so I highly doubt she'd throw herself on the floor and scream. But she's still a brat . . . just in a teenager way. I'd love to hear some feedback regarding her character (not bratty enough?) Thank you all for reading!**

Worthless.

That's what gym was to her education.

When was Veruca Salt _ever _going to need to know the rules of Ultimate Handball? Never! But you know what she _did _need? A new outfit for the party she was going to on Saturday night.

Having gym class right before lunch was a curse that somehow came became a blessing. During homeroom, she came up with her plan, decided that when was supposed to report to gym, she'd just go up to that sweat ball of a teacher and would that she needed to go the nurse for _personal reasons_.

By some miracle, it worked.

That buffoon just _let her go_. He didn't ask any questions like how long she was planning on staying at the office or even why she needed to go (he must have assumed it was something her period and therefore, don't ask, don't tell). He didn't note that she hadn't changed into her dorky gym clothes. He just excused her for the period.

Veruca went to the nurse, of course – then turned right, went down another hall way, right out to the student parking lot where she jumped into her Ferrari her daddy bought her for her Sweet Sixteen and headed straight to Bloomingdale's. She wasn't going to be cured by an ice-pack, some aspirin, and a catnap on the nurse's paper-covered cot but rather by good-old-fashioned retail therapy.

For the hour and ten minutes she was there, she browsed through the store at the upscale mall and searched through racks and racks of cocktail dresses – all of them lovely and all of them with price tags that would send _less fortunate_ straight to the cardiac ward. When she glanced at her phone for the time, she saw that she needed to get back to school before her hawk-eyed English teacher noticed that she never returned from lunch. She had to make her decision quickly.

After all, attending what was rumored to be the parents-away-in-Europe-party to crush all parents-away-in-Europe parties was going to require something stunning. It was not a choice to be taken very lightly.

So she bought them all so that she could choose what to wear in the comfort of her own bedroom.

Pressed for time, Veruca swiped her daddy's credit card as fast as she could despite the elderly salesclerk. Veruca then dashed to her car, careful not to spoil her Jimmy Choos in the gum wads and mud puddles that filled the parking lot (how vile!) , stashing the evidence of her little excursion in the trunk.

By her impeccable luck, she got back to school in the nick of time. No one must have noticed she was gone because she eased right into her seat for English class and pulled out her copy of _The Great Gatsby_ like she had been there all along.

That was, until after class she got called down on the loudspeaker to the principal's office. Apparently, that wheezy tub of lard that was her gym teacher stopped by the nurse's office during his lunch to get an ice pack and asked how Veruca was.

Not here, was the answer he got.

Oops.

Well, apparently ditching class for a few little three-hundred-dollar dresses was a_ big deal_ and the matter was_ not going to be taken lightly_. Principal Bentley emphasized this by going to the length of calling Mr. and Mrs. Salt who were busy but had thankfully made time for their daughter's sudden dive into delinquency (for the record, the former was running one of the most successful nut-shelling business in the world and the latter had been in middle of her Pilates class).

A good father would have gotten his daughter out of suspension.

Mr. Salt was a good father.

But an even _better_ father would have gotten her out of all punishment and not let that horrid yellow detention slip fall into her hands.

Mr. Salt was not a better father.

Apparently, he was trying out this thing called "tough love" and therefore believed that she face some of the consequences of her actions by not going to the party she had shopped for and spend that Saturday she using to doll herself up for aforementioned party in detention.

After nearly seventeen years of doting and spoiling his daughter like a grand duchess, this whole "responsible parent" thing was coming awfully late in the game. Veruca was not used to not getting her way, but she decided to handle the situation like a mature, eloquent sixteen-year-old lady.

Which, of course, was storming off to her room, locking the door behind her, and refusing to talk to her parents.

She didn't even want to talk to her wretched father – who was a _billionaire_ and could have easily bought the principle out of punishing her- as they drove up to the school in the limo that was to escort Veruca to detention and then Mr. Salt to his factory.

Through the tinted glass she glared at that ridiculous library that would be her prison for the next eight hours.

She managed to say some choice words to her father, "I can't believe you didn't try to get me out of this."

"Veruca darling, I did what I could," Mr. Salt said for the thousandth time in twelve hours. He was starting to sound like that silly parrot Veruca had as child who only knew one phrase.

"I can't believe I have to waste my entire Saturday with a bunch of criminals," Vercua's voice was dipped in venom as she scowled ever more intensely at the door that would lock behind her as she entered. No way out.

"Now, sweetheart, they're most likely not all criminals there," Mr. Salt tried to reason. "Can you just put on a brave face and go for this one time?"

Veruca hadn't thrown a tantrum since she was twelve years old, but she was still not above the classic dramatics of the Eye Roll, Scoff, and Silent Exit.

"Have a good day, pumpkin." Mr. Salt's call after his daughter was unheard as she slammed the door behind him.

A sudden wind gusted her way and she clasped her unbuttoned Burberry coat as she stomped her heels (even at sixteen, stomping had some sort of solace to it) on the pathway leading up to the library. When she entered, she could see there were only two others serving detention or at least only two had reported already.

One kid was one of the fattest guys she had ever seen, taking up pretty much the whole side of one of the tables with a pale doughy face and strawberry hair that swirled at the top of his head. A circus-tent size dark-olive cardigan was left unbuttoned (probably to make sure they didn't pop) above a red and white striped shirt. Obviously, this guy didn't know he was doing a disservice to himself because horizontal stripes made you look wider. The other guy was the total and complete opposite, skinny and huddled in an obviously hand-knit sweater and wearing the dopiest smile she had ever seen as he looked at her, trying to welcome her into this sick little club.

Ugh.

Hardly criminals, but they didn't inspire any hope for her morale.

She glanced at the clock above the counter as she took a seat at a table behind the fat guy. 6;57.

Eight hours and three minutes of personal hell to go.


	4. Fierce

**AN: I admit, I struggled finding Violet's narrative a little bit. First I had to decide **_**which**_** Violet to do because, out of all the other children, she's the one who has changed the most. Although intrigued by her loud-mouthy-ness from the 1971 film and the celebrity diva-ness of the 2013 West End musical, I eventually settled with the 2005 competitor. I thought her mother's pressure to be the best at everything would be something compelling to write about. **

**By the way -**_**Je vais souffrir**_** means "I will suffer."**_** Je souffre**_** means "I suffer." **

**Enjoy and please review!**

Fierce.

That's the kind of competitor Violet Beauregard had always been.

For as long as she could remember she had been put under the pressure to be the best and of course, excelled at it. When she was younger, her mother bragged about how Violet was born within 12hours of her due date, right on time, just as the doctor had predicted. She gloated about the milestones Violet reached as a baby - smiling, sitting up, rolling over, talking, walking– which, of course, were all reached either earlier than expected or just at the right time.

As Violet grew, there came other things for Scarlett Beauregard to make all of the other moms in the cul-de-sac envious as their own kids sat around and dug up worms and wiped their nose on their tee-shirts.

Soccer. Karate. Violin. Gymnastics. Spelling Bees. Tap Dancing.

There was always the need to improve.

Art classes. Conversational French lessons. Tutors drilling her times tables day and night.

Trophies filled their living room, the ribbons adorned their walls, the photos in their neat little frames boasted a perfect mother/daughter winning team.

And Violet loves it. She _lives _for winning.

But winners don't do detention.

So Violet was humiliated when her gym teacher called her out of class and handed her that stupid piece of paper demanding that she waste her Saturday (which she could have been using to write college application essays) to go in and spend eight hours reflecting on something so trivial as a black eye for Cindy Jacobs that happened Thursday, tenth period.

Thursday had been the first time in a long time that the gym classes decided it was fine enough to go outside. The snow was banished, the breeze was pleasant, the sky was a cloudless blue. So the teachers decided to drag the kids out for a game on the field.

Gym for Violet was just an extension of all of her practices – there was always time to improve. While the other kids slacked off in class and lagged behind in her dust, Violet was serious on running laps, preparing for her soccer game after school. In her head, she conjugated French verbs for the quiz coming up after class. She ignored the whispers of "_Try-Hard_" and the eye rolls as she ran circles around all the rest.

They had been playing football – not one of her favorites but something was better than nothing. She was still chosen to be team captain, which made her class. Leadership was vital to succeeding in life and any chance to do it was an advantage. As the other girls complained about the blue and red pinnies they had to wear and how they were most likely never washed, Violet strategized.

Things seemed to be going well as Violet (as per usual) lead the team to victory. But then something happened that would cost her all of that self-improvement time.

She . . . wasn't quite sure how it had happened. She wasn't sure how something inside her snapped, how she could have forgotten the rules of "no tackling" of this sanitized version of the sport.

But she did.

And it was kind of grizzly.

And Cindy Jacobs got it hard when she stood in Violet's way, tumbling back into the mud left behind from a snow drift as Violet wrestled her for the ball. When Cindy stood up, her face was smeared by mud and the mark of a bruise circled under eye. The color of purple – ironically.

Violet Beauregard's French conjunction practice at the start of gym had been for nothing because the next period she spent it in the office with her gym teacher, Principal Bentley, and, worst of all, Scarlett Beauregard who had to cancel an important client consolation to deal with this family crisis.

Scarlett was skilled with poise. A natural speaker, dignified as a Southern debutante, Scarlett conversed with the principal in private while Violet skimmed through community college brochures, catching a glimpse into the future of everyone else going to this school.

When Scarlett emerged, Violet could tell she had put on a duck façade – calm, serine on the top, but beneath the surface she was mad, mad,_ mad_. On the van ride home after the soccer match that Violet incredibly wasn't expelled from, she had explained that even with her charisma lever in full force, she still hadn't been able to convince the principal that he daughter was innocent and she didn't mean to give anyone a black eye. It was in her nature to be competitive and girls like her in today's society should be revered. Girls like Violet were not problem cases – they were examples! She was to be put on pedestal and lead the collective, not be knocked down for just being a little bit of an intense competitor.

He wasn't buying it. A yellow ticket (admit one) to the 7:00 am Saturday morning detention waited for her and they had to deal.

It was difficult dealing as the minivan meandered up to the school that morning. Violet and her mother hadn't been on good speaking terms since that Thursday. Scarlett could hardly believe that her well-rounded daughter could have ever done something that would warrant a detention. But she managed to say something as Violet was about to start her walk of shame towards the school library.

"Is this the first time or last time we do this, Violet Beauregard?" Scarlett's eyes were on the empty road ahead, not on her daughter.

"Last," Violet croaked as she looked out at the blank road. There was nothing else to look at.

"Good. Now, you go in and you make the most of your time!"

She couldn't tell her they probably weren't allowed to study or anything. Honestly, she had no idea what an all-Saturday detention would entail, but she doubted whoever was in charge of the whole situation would allow her to go to the computer lab and print out a few college and scholarship applications to fill out during the eight hours. There was only answer as far as Scarlett was concerned and that was, "Yes, mother."

"And remember you have soccer practice right after this, so remember to change into your uniform," Scarlett reminded her daughter as she reached for the lunchbox and duffle bag sitting on the floor beside her. "And do try to go over some of your points for the Debater's Competition next Saturday."

"I'll try," Violet promised as she shuffled out of the van and up the sidewalk to the school. She was glad she had worn her blue track suit because it was windy out that morning. Not very fashionable, but they were just right for her. She adored track suits because they were warm and just right to slip on when she got up at the crack of dawn for a meet.

_Or detention_, she thought as she walked into the library.

There were already three others there, waiting for their sentence:

A fat guy who looked like he wanted to go back to bed as the juice of an apple dribbled down to one of his numerable chins. She had seen him around in school from time to time (it was impossible _not_ to!) and the only thing she heard about him that he was from Austria – or somewhere like that.

Veruca Salt. Great, eight hours with the snobbiest girl in school, one of the highest up on the social food chain. Poor little rich girl couldn't get her daddy to buy her way out of detention, now could he? Didn't he already buy her decent grades?

And then there was some skinny, plain looking guy. He seemed okay. Bit of loser, given his sad-looking sweater, stupid haircut, and meek smile. But okay. If she had to sit anywhere, she'd sit next to him.

It was better than Veruca or the fat kid.

She didn't even ask for the seat, she just set her bag down and plopped herself into the seat.

"Good morning," she heard her say quietly, a little too nicely. Like the dork was _happy to be here_. The crunching of an apple filled her ear as she watched the kid next to her stuff it into his face, spit and water flying through the air with every bite.

Violet mumbled something to greet the nerd next to her, but then reached over to her gym bag where she unzipped the convenient little pocket and pulled out a packet of Juicy Fruit. Every once in a while she indulged in a fresh piece just to taste some flavor. She placed her old, award-winning piece of gum behind her ear and after tearing through the silver wrapping of the new piece, popped it into her mouth.

As she chewed, she closed her eyes and conjugated.

_Je vais souffrir._

_CRUNCH! _That kid was all but eating the core.

_Je souffre._


	5. Moronic

**AN: Now that I reflect on it, starting the exposition chapters with one word to sum up a story is reminding me of "The Cell Block Tango" from the musical, **_**Chicago**_**. Also, if you haven't noticed from Augustus' chapter and by a brief mention in this chapter, I'm a big fan of another Roald Dahl book. **

**Mike Teavee's narrative was the probably **_**the**_** most challenging for me thus far. I mean, there is so many different interpretations of the characters, like Violet. In the 1971 film, he's just a little kid obsessed with Westerns – loud and kinda obnoxious. In the 2005, he's rude and sarcastic but actually quite intelligent. In the musical, he's a rebel that drives his mother to take more pills than him. So, I tried to do a healthy blend of all three. He's not so much obnoxious and loud yet, but I think he will be in later chapters. I also tried to use both versions of his parents because I really like Mr. Teavee's passiveness with parenting and Mrs. Teavee's **_**Stepford Wives**_**- ness. **

**So, with finishing all 5 of the kids' chapters, I must ask who's your favorite Wonka brat? Who would you like to read/ see more of? Send me a review and do enjoy this chapter!**

Moronic.

That's what his teachers were.

There was no doubt about it - Mike Teavee was a brilliant student. Possibly the top of his class, with AP everything. But he had a huge problem with those who were supposed to teach him. The majority of them had no idea what they were saying, ranting and raving and getting so off-topic that Mike didn't see the _point_ really in school. He already was about three steps ahead of where his teachers were going at all times, so sitting in class, eight hours a day for five days a week, for thirty-six weeks seemed like a colossal waste of time.

But his father was the school's geography teacher, the family put a great emphasis on education, he could never succeed in life without a high school diploma . . . yadda yadda yadda.

So at school Mike stayed by the insisting of Norman and Doris, even though he couldn't really care anything about his high school career. What did it really matter? Colleges were practically _throwing_ themselves at him already. He just had to breeze through his rest of his junior and senior year and he could go anywhere he wanted, out of this garbage heap of a town.

And away from those idiot teachers.

Not _all _ of them were awful. His German IV teacher was okay and he didn't mind his Engineering class but the majority of them were just a bunch a morons who just droned on about nothing on. Especially his AP Physics teacher.

_GOD_,she wouldn't shut up!

She's just go on and on and on and on and on like she knew what she was talking about! Of course the old bat must have been around so long she could have dated Isaac Newton. That was probably the last discovery she was well aware of - gravity, that was. Which, coincidentally, it was also taking it's cruel irony on her body.

That fossil hardly qualified as a teacher. She kept having to look back into the book _constantly_ to even remotely explain something.

Sometimes the teacher needed to be taught one thing or another.

And for trying to get his dinosaur of a teacher to learn a thing or two, Mike was awarded a yellow detention slip.

Not like those bothered him anymore.

Because they didn't.

And never did.

Pfft.

Sassing off in class was one of Mike's less severe transgression. He could have hacked into the school's system and changed his grade (done on several occasion) or been caught smoking behind the gym (daily basis, but no one seemed to notice) or skipped class (usually his utterly useless but apparently necessary art class). This was one of his more trivial detention-ticket winnings out of what could possibly have been a scrapbook-filled of Saturday incarcerations. All this over correcting her for a few little points? Making her saggy old face turn red a little bit? Hah! Wow, they'll throw you in detention for anything nowadays!

Norman didn't even care anymore. It had been a long time since he had given so much as a rat's ass about his son's discipline issues. He might have tried to start a few sentences with a "Now, Mike . . ." but those few and far between.

And Doris? Well, she was usually popping happy pills and usually dozed off in the wingback chair in the TV room by eight o'clock at night, sherry glass sitting ontop of _Good Housekeeping_.

Mike didn't even tell Norman and Doris about his newest acquisition of a detention ticket. His Saturdays were his business anyway, and they wouldn't be surprised by him getting up so early to head to detention. It was either get up at the crack of dawn to go to detention or to the basement for _Grand Theft Auto_.

One hand shoved in the pocket of his coat, other on the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, earplugs and rock music shoved into both ears, he shuffled up towards the high school. His steps from house on Baker Street about half a mile from the school were so robotic now; his black Converse sneakers had seen this route at least two dozen times since Freshman year.

As he rounded the corner from the auditorium's entrance to where the library was, he kept wondering what the hell Mr. Turkentine was going to make him do. Once they had to copy definitions from the dictionary. Pointless. A few weeks ago he had to pick gum off of all the tables in the school. Gross. He took a nap under one of the tables in the Math Lab. The time before that was cleaning out the Home Ec. room, washing all the pots and pans and reorganizing everything. Housework, essentially. Also boring as hell. Mr. Turkentine certainly didn't like to enrich those in detention.

As he walked down to the library, he also wondered what this odd-bag of kids was going to contain. Detention usually had a strange mix of personalities, usually a bunch of stoners and basket-cases.

Sometimes it was just Mike, who Turkentine considered was under _both_ labels.

Or at least, seemed like it.

Oh well.

He walked into the library and caught glance of those he would be sitting with in this very confined space for the next eight or so hours.

Today might be the day when he hit the weird-o jack-pot.

On one side you had resident fatass Augustus Gloop who was not actually a resident entirely of this country, given his über-thick German accent. Behind him was brat-pack leader Veruca Salt, who had her nose and head stuck in the clouds with a (at least) three-thousand dollar Prom dress hanging in her closet and her dear old papa sending her to the French Riviera for Spring Break.

On the other was Violet Beauregarde, possibly the most annoying thing under the roof of this school. She was in the majority of his AP classes and always liked to compare tests and answer questions and _participate_.

What a loser.

Speaking of losers, there also that Bucket kid sitting next to him. That Bucket kid who was in his Robotics class - he sat by the window and maybe said about three sentences per class. What could he have done to earn himself a Saturday detention? That kid was like a background extra in a movie, he just _blended in_ and was just kinda . . . there. So private and quiet, nobody really acknowledged him. He just kinda existed. And he was just weirdly nice to everyone. It was . . . strange.

So a Princess, an Overachiever, a Nice Guy, a Fat Kid and himself.

Well, they were in for quite the adventure.


	6. A Bit of Soul Searching

**AN: I've decided that I'll continue the third-person limited from one of the five kids' POV for the rest of the fic (if you don't mind that). I just like the character growth that can been seen from it. Thank you for all of the reviews and favs/follows! **

**Precious-Ballerina-Jillian: I'm really glad you liked my portrayal of Mike, Violet, and Mrs. Teavee! I've always been on Team Veruca, but I admit, I really liked writing for Violet~ It's such a new mindset for me to get into for both Mike and Violet, but I loved experimenting! And Mrs. T's the best! I used to be annoyed by her as a child when I watched **_**Willy Wonka**_** but now that I've given the musical a listen, she's definitely become one of my favorites! I just might have to write something with her eventually. I do have a bit of a fic that includes her about Mike's summer vacation one year, but that's for another time.**

**Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

Who said the library was a quiet, serene place?

Charlie's ears were filled with the obnoxious sound of gum snapping and heavy rock music. Not a very pleasant combination, if he did say so himself.

The girl who had sat next to him, platinum blonde and athletic, was making it a point to clack her Juicy Fruit with such ferocity. This was no run-of-the-mill study hall cow chewing, it was as if chewing this gum was worth her life.

The boy (whom Charlie recognized from his Robotics class and his mouth as Michael Teavee) sat behind him was listening to an intense metal band _very loudly_. When he walked in, the sound of his iPod pierced the relatively quiet library, creating an almost dramatic entrance as everyone sitting in the library snapped their heads towards the kid. Charlie feared for the other boy's eardrums because he knew that having the volume so loud that someone could hear some of the obscene lyrics blasting out of the ear buds was detrimental to one's hearing. He had tried to turn around and ask if (more like motion because he was positive that the kid couldn't hear him in the slightest) if he could turn it down, but the other guy just rolled his eyes and propped his dirty Converse sneakers on the table.

After that incident, Charlie thought it would be just be best if he kept to himself.

Oh well, at least he tried to be helpful, right?

Just then, he saw the door open and in stepped Mr. Turkentine and Charlie winced. Mr. Turkentine, albeit a little on the eccentric side, was one of his favorite Math and Science teachers from his junior high days. He incredibly transferred to the senior high during this year. Over the seventh grade, Mr. Turkentine had trusted Charlie a great deal with labs and helping out around in the classroom, considering him one of his best students. Charlie knew that his former teacher was going to be very disappointed in him.

And, Charlie mused, maybe if he had him as a Chemistry teacher, perhaps he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

"Good morning," he said to everyone as he walked towards them, carrying a clipboard and a cheesy "World's Best Teacher" mug with him.

Charlie legitimately said, "Good Morning."

The girl next to him popped her bubble.

The robust boy bided, "Guten Morgen."

The girl behind him scoffed.

The boy behind Charlie didn't say anything, the music drowning on.

Mr. Turkentine took a long sip of his coffee before setting it down in front of the heavy-set boy. "Alright," he brisked in with a clipboard and stood back up before the assembled group. "Let's see what the damage is this Saturday, shall we?"

He cleared his throat and said, "When I call your name, please raise your hand. I trust that you all have your detention slips?"

Charlie nodded and dug through the pocket of his coat draped behind him on the chair to pull out the neatly folded yellow piece of paper.

" Violet Beauregard." The blonde next to Charlie handed Mr. Turkentine her detention slip that had been tucked in between knee pads in her gym bag. "I don't think I need to remind you on our school's policies regarding chewing gum."

_Pop_. Violet's gum snapped in his face before she pulled it out of her mouth and wrapped it into the silver wrapper and threw it into a near-by trashcan. _Swoosh_. Perfect shot.

"Excellent. Charlie Bucket." Mr. Turkentine blinked. "Charlie Bucket?"

"Here, Mr. Turkentine," Charlie said, extending his yellow slip towards the teacher.

"Well, I never thought in a million years think I would see you here, Mr. Bucket." His voice was dripped in disappointment. Charlie looked down at the desk and clasped his hands together.

"Augustus Gloop." The heavier boy sitting across the aisle from handed his ticket to the teacher, who took it and then curled his nose in disgust. "Herr Gloop, would you care to explain these stains and fingerprints on your slip?"

Charlie heard Violet and the other girl sitting behind Augustus snicker lightly.

"It is chocolate," Augustus assured, his German accent thickening the sentence. "I didn't get to wash my hands after eating the cake."

"I see. For future reference, Augustus, do try to keep your paperwork chocolate-free." Mr. Turkentine moved on from there. " Veruca Salt."

The only other girl raised her hand but did not give the teacher the yellow ticket still clutched between her manicured fingers. "Excuse me, but I believe that I'm in the wrong place," she confessed. "I know this is detention, but do you really expect me to spend eight hours with . . ."

She never continued because the teacher stopped her. "Miss Salt, I guarantee you that you're in the right place. Your father's factory may be a major driving force in this area's economy, but that does not mean you will be treated any differently regarding detention."

Veruca was stifled having been set into her place. Her shoulders squared and her arms crossed, a pout placed on her pink-stained lips.

The teacher ignored her theatrics and looked back in the general direction of Charlie and Violet to the final boy who was still in his own world with his rock music blaring on and on. He was completely oblivious to the older man's glance and annoyed expression suddenly pressed onto his face.

"Well, well, well. Another Saturday with Michael Teavee." Mr. Turkentine dryly said. He walked over to the table behind Charlie and Violet. Mike looked up at him with an equaled expression, scowling at older man.

Mr. Turkentine made a strange charade of pulling out ear buds, knowing that there was no way that the boy would even remotely hear him. Begrudgingly, Mike took out the ear buds and shut off the rock music with a glower.

"I'll be taking those for the rest of detention," the teacher. said as he pulled the iPod and ear buds away and tucked them into his pocket. "Your detention slip, please."

From within his own pocket, Mike withdrew the crinkled yellow paper and flung it at the teacher, who, with a grumble, began to smooth it out. He asked, "What is it this time, Mr. Teavee?" Mumbling to himself, he read the felony scrawled on the paper. "'Rudely and viciously insulting a teacher's authority and insubordination.' You have quite a mouth on you, don't you Michael?"

Mike didn't say anything.

Mr. Turkentine set the yellow slips down next to his coffee mug and glanced back up to the clock and stated, "The time now is 7:06. You have exactly seven hours and fifty-four minutes to all reflect on your actions that have lead you here today. There won't be any talking and you will not move from your seats - this will be a silent detention to ponder the error of your ways. And even though this is an early hour, you will not sleep." He looked to Augustus, who, now that he had finished his apple, looked like he was going to doze back asleep. But, seeing that he was in the hot spot, Augustus sat up taller to look more awake. "No matter how tempting the urge."

His hands clasped together. "Now, I'm trying something different today regarding your service for this detention. Today I am requesting that you all write for me a thousand-word essay on who you think you are." From the clipboard he withdrew a stack of lined paper.

He went around to all of the tables and handed out three pieces of paper to each student. "For any of you out there -" a quick glance towards Mike's direction " - who believe that the same word written over and over again will suffice, I am here to tell you that it won't."

Charlie was handed his pieces of paper and looked down at the blue lines. A thousand words wasn't too hard and it was all about himself. That wasn't too bad of a detention. Luck had played in his favor.

"Mr. Turkentine?" Augustus's voice called out as the teacher handed the paper to Mike. "When you say you want us to write about ourselves, do you want to know things like our hobbies und favorite foods und . . ."

"No, Herr Gloop. I expect you to think a little deeper than that," Turkentine answered. "A little soul-searching is in order. I want this to be a period of self-reflection, a time to get in touch with your inner self which I heartily believe young people don't have enough time to do. Who knows? Perhaps you will learn something about yourself and be set back onto the straight and narrow so that you perhaps will make the choice to never return. Now, is there any questions or concerns?"

A hand cut through the air behind Charlie.

"Mr. Teavee?" Turkentine's voice was dripping with suspicion.

"Yes, I have to congratulate you on World's Most Unoriginal Detention," Mike said smoothly. "Do you know you're ripping off every teacher ever on the first day of school's assignment?"

Although Charlie hated to side with Mike, he had to admit that for the past ten or so years, most teachers expected the students to write a short essay about themselves as a sort of introduction. This was not unlike all of those essays he had written in English class, but still Charlie planned to put just the same amount of effort in it.

"Mr. Teavee, I expect that you'll be learning a little more about yourself next Saturday when you write me another essay," Mr. Turkentine said briskly, not even looking back at who had spoken to him. He paused and looked around at the other four, ignoring Mike's glares. "No questions?"

No questions.

Just ten eyes peering up at him wordlessly.

"Alright then." Turkentine coiled back his defenses from being snapped by another attack of Mike's ferocious jaw. "I will be right in the classroom across the way." A finger point to the open door that lead the view of a humble little tutoring classroom. Charlie could understand why Mr. Turkentine would not want to spend eight hours stuck in the library.

No one wanted to be here.

Turkentine collected his World's Best Teacher and clipboard and whisked away to his cozy corner in the classroom.

Charlie pulled out his pen from his coat pocket that was always paired with his Inventor's Notebook. For one birthday, his father and mother had scrimped and pinched to buy Charlie a beautiful Moleskin journal that was pocket-sized and was able to be carried around for whenever he got an idea. He only liked to write the best of his best ideas in it, however, to conserve the valuable paper.

He looked down to the notebook paper.

A thousand words about himself.

But where to start?

He scrawled _Charlie Bucket_ on the red margin.

His name seemed like the perfect place to begin.


	7. Willkommen Im Klub

**AN: A new installment of **_**Drop Your Defenses**_** is here! And it's along one! Yay! It's been getting pretty hectic schedule-wise with exams and projects and job training and then this summer is looking pretty filled with helping out with a theatre camp and the fact that I'll be on my trip to London, Paris, and Rome in a little over a month! Sadly, I won't be able to drop by the Drury Lane theatre for a performance of **_**Charlie**_** but I might be able to take a few photos of it (hopefully). I don't know how frequently I'll be able to update this fic, but I shall prevail.**

**Actually, this was finished as a treat to myself for working through my German project. And isn't it ironic that I'm writing about a German**__**character? Augustus Gloop is the narrative for this portion and, boy is he a challenge. I mean, eating is his hobby - how do you make a 3-D character from a bottomless pit? I hope my interpretation of him is acceptable and (maybe) likeable? He's a fusion of all of his incarnations - he's as gluttonous and a little rude like the 2005 version, he's quiet and kind of reserved like the 1971 Augustus, and he hail from Bavaria. His parents ( his mother, mostly as his father has only had ONE line in all three versions) is based on the musical with the constant doting and. **

**The song "More of Him to Love" was the first musical I listened to on the cast album, and I really liked how they explored some Gloop family history with Frau Gloop's verses in the song and how Augustus came to be so obsessed in food was because his parents were. The apple doesn't fall from the tree, correct? Anyways, his ability to the play the tuba came from a conversation with my friend and editor, whom I thank for the inspiration.**

**I'd also like thank the reviews/followers/anyone who reads this story for your continued support!**

**Dead-Rogs: I'm glad my fic helped you through your own detention. I'm absolutely flattered by your kind words~ Your lovely review brightened my day because when I received it, I had just come back from my final **_**Little Shop of Horrors**_** rehearsal and was starting to get some post-show-depression. I'm really glad you enjoy my story because I really love yours!**

**Alrighty then - on with the story?**

_Who am I?_

Augustus was sure everyone in the detention room was repeating this in their mind. At least, he was. When Mr. Turkentine had thrown away the possibility of writing about hobbies and food

and family and asked they think a little deeper into the essay, there went Augustus' concept of what he was going to write and the idea he was going to breeze through this detention.

This required "soul-searching".

And a German-to-English dictionary.

At seven o'clock in the morning, Augustus deemed it was too early to think in English. He'd rather flip through a few pages of a book then rack his brain for the right word. He was fluent in the language but at this hour on a Saturday, all he wanted to do was go back to bed.

His normal Saturdays didn't require him to think. On a normal Saturday around this time, he'd just settling into the passenger seat of the refrigerated van with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled over his head as he tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep, his father driving them to a local farm to pick up a few sides of pork.

He glanced to the other side of the library to where one girl and two guys were sitting. The girl was scribbling furiously, as this was one big game of who-can-find-themselves-first. The really thin boy was writing, but only a few words at a time. He'd stop. Think a little bit. Continue. This was not a marathon. The boy behind the soul-finding-stroller was drumming with his pencil.

Augustus looked back to his blank page and then to the clock. It had only ticked away another two minutes since he last checked it.

7:14.

Augustus had always been relatively quiet, even when he lived in Germany. He didn't have a lot of friends back then as well as now because he didn't like to confide in many people. In this school, he had more acquaintances than friends and the number of those who he actually, _truly_ talked to was about two. He guessed there wasn't much_ to _confide to others, anyway. But now he had to sum up himself in a thousand words, share himself in three pieces of paper for an almost stranger to read.

And it wasn't like he could write about the move from Germany and this past summer, the first in this country. Because the truth was that it was boring. Most of the time was spent unpacking and setting up the shop. There was allegedly a heat wave that summer, but Augustus didn't really notice because he had spent most of it in the meat fridge, shuffling, counting (and occasionally, eating) the inventory. What time that was not spent in the butcher's shop was spent upstairs in their little apartment where he'd either watch whatever American daytime television had to offer or played around in the kitchen, experimenting with different recipes he found in cookbooks.

Occasionally, he'd go to the library and find a new cookbook once he grew bored of his mother's rather extensive collection. The librarian asked once and a while if he'd bring her some of the leftovers. Sometimes he'd remember and give back the books with a small container of whatever he had made. She'd recommend a few times. He read them because she was nice. Some of them were okay. Some of them he only read a few chapters before growing bored and going back to his cooking.

By the end of July his parents were more active socially than their son. His mother took a knitting class every Thursday evening. She and his father went to a few dinner parties.

Augustus was alone.

Through the paper thin walls, he heard a private conversation about how he was such a lonely child. At least he wasn't a hooligan and played violent video games and shot off guns. He needed friends because this move was hard for all of them but doing something would help him settle in. He'd make friends on his own time. How about talking to him about a school activity?

And that was how Augustus spent the rest of the summer at band camp.

Augustus woke up to reality and to the fact that his paper was still completely blank.

He felt like he needed to write_ something_ down now because he needed to start _somewhere_.

_My family has been in the meat industry for the past five generations_, he scribbled in German. He didn't intend for Mr. Turkentine to read this, but he felt if he wrote down some of his family history, he could see a bigger picture of himself.

He scratched the sentence out.

Too broad.

He zoomed in a little closer to the present. _ My Omi was a seamstress by day and a confectioner by night to brighten Opi's evenings. She taught my mother everything she knew about cooking. Opa and Oma were a fourth generation butchers who passed their shop to my father, who will eventually pass it on to me. _

Augustus stared at the paper for a moment then continued, deciding to skip how his parents met and go on about his story.

_I was born and raised in a mountain town in southern Bavaria to Elsie and Dietrich Gloop. _

He stopped and leaned back in the chair after this one sentence, dissatisfied. He wasn't' sure writing if an autobiography would help him discover himself.

This was harder than he anticipated.

His hand reached over to his backpack sitting on the floor next to him, his fingers tugged at the at the zipper and reached for a Scrumdiddlyumptious bar nestled next to a packet of tissues and an empty potato chip bag. His emergency stash.

Food for thought.

The moment he peeled back the red and silver paper and was just about to snap off a piece, someone called out, "Hey, Hobbit, is it second breakfast already?"

Augustus looked around to see who had spoken, only to see that Mike was glaring back at him, expecting an answer. He didn't know what to say, so he just took a bite of the Wonka bar.

"You know, if you keep snacking like that, you're not going to be hungry for lunch," Mike advised dryly.

Augustus was about to turn back to his paper, to think a little deeper about his family life, but Mike asked him, " Did you at least bring enough to share?"

He did. But he wasn't sharing food. Shouldn't they have known to have brought their own snacks and lunch?

"Why?" Augustus finally asked. "Do you want some?"

"No," Mike said. "I hate chocolate. But I was just asking, Lard, because while you're scarfing down your second snack in fifteen minutes, there are children starving all the way across the room." He motioned to the thin boy sitting in front of them whose pale cheeks flushed under the sudden attention. "Bones here looks like he hasn't had anything in days."

Name-calling hadn't hurt Augustus in a very long time, but he felt kind of bad for the other boy and his frailness being brought into this discussion. "Can we just get back to writing our essays?"

"Anything you want," Mike said and leaned back into his seat.

Augustus looked back to his paper and took a large bite of the Wonka bar.

_My childhood was simplistic and happy - my mother baked and cooked for me and read to me while my father worked in the butcher shop's downstairs. _

"Shit." Mike's cussing rung through Augustus' ear and his head whipped back to the other kid. "What if we have to use the can? I'm not waiting for Turkentine to make me wear handcuffs and escort me to to the john."

"If you even so much as think about going in here then I'll scream," the girl behind Augustus' voice was frantic and threatening.

"I'm not an animal," Mike told her and stood up. "But I'm not going to take Turkentine's pissing around if I need to take a piss."

He took a step and the thin boy, still blushed by Mike's earlier comment, piped up, "But you'll get in trouble if you move."

Mike's eye rolled before smoothly saying, "You think I give a damn about that, Chuck?"

Charlie was stifled by this, not sure of what to say back. However, the blonde gumchewer next to him sure did. "For the love of God, Mike, just sit down and hold it. "

"Oh ho." Mike's hands shot up in defense. "Feisty, aren't you, Vi?" He plopped himself on top of the desk between Charlie and Violet, then glanced down at Violet's paper. "How cute. You actually wrote something. It'll probably be a novel by the time we finish."

"Aren't you going to write anything?" Charlie asked, looking up.

"I don't think you get me, Chuck," Mike said. "I wasn't planning on going on a spiritual journey."

"Aren't you going to at least try?"

Augustus caught a whisper of something like "pathetic" leave Mike's lips before he jumped off the desk and shot at glance over towards Augustus and the other girl.

"What about you, Verruca?"

Augustus looked back to and could see she looked up to Mike with an annoyed expression. "Are you looking for your soul today?" He nodded toward her.

She glowered and went back to writing.

"Apparently so," he said. He paused, and apparently decided not to ask Augustus any questions regarding his essay. And Augustus was thankful for that.

Mike motioned to the door and said, "Why don't we shut that door? We need a little privacy if we're looking for our _inner selves_." A sneer escorted this words.

"But the door is supposed to be open at all times - " Augustus may have been a relatively quiet person, but something inside him compelled to speak up for what was right, speak what everyone else was probably thinking.

"So?" The sarcastic glance was piercing and sent the bit of bravery and gusto in the other boy cowering.

Thank god there were other to stand up for the collective.

"So there are four other people in here," Violet interjected. "You may want to spend the rest of your Saturdays stuck in the library, but some of us don't."

"Congratulation Violet Beauregarde for once again being the martyr," Mike chuckled. "You know what? How about you stick to being what you're good at? Which is, being a the school biggest kiss-up."

"_Can it_!" Violet's face was flustered, her hands clenched in two tight fists, ready for action.

"Hey!" Turkentine's voice came booming through. Footsteps approach. Mike squished next to Augustus.

Turkentine still was gripping World's Best Teacher. "What is going on here?"

"Nothing, sir," Mike answered.

Nothing was wrong. No shenanigans. Nope.

"What are you doing sitting next to Mr. Gloop, Michael?" Turkentine's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Oh." Caught off guard, but Mike seemed quick to think on his feet. "Gus here just wanted help spelling something."

_Can this guy read minds?_ Augustus asked one fleeting minute, having just thought about the dictionary he wanted to use. A freak occurrence, but he was just hoping this lie seemed passable.

More suspicion. "Is that true, Mr. Gloop?"

Sweat bubbled at the base of his hairline.

He didn't want another detention.

In the spotlight again, Augustus croaked a, "Yes." He cleared his throat. "I-I forgot how to spell a word and was going to grab a dictionary, but Mike offered to write it down for me. My brain is a little forgetful at this hour." A weak laugh for believability.

The tension around Turkentine's eyes didn't quite release. "If you want, you can go get a dictionary, Mr. Gloop." Turkentine turned to Mike. "As for you, get back to your seat and get working on your essay."

"Yes, sir!" An air of mocking covered Mike's voice as he saluted the teacher, but he wasn't reprimanded.

Turkentine disappeared to the tutoring room across the hall, hopefully returning back to his non attentive state.

Augustus could breathe again.

Mike pushed away from the seat and stood up.

Thankful that he had permission granted, Augustus went to the little alcove of reference books close next to the Language Lab, a little room attached to the library. There was the German/English dictionary. He took it and immediately went back to his seat before he had overused the seat-moving privilege.

Mike wasn't so concerned. He still stood in front of the classroom, despite the pressure from other to return and get back to work.

"Can you get back to your seat before you get all of us in trouble again?" Violet asked, annoyance once again was soaking her voice. Augustus began to suspect that maybe this whole thing of Mike-being-disobedient-and-Violet-demanding-he-follow-the-rules was something that happened _outside _of this detention.

Confrontation was brewing, but Mike stayed a cool, "You can't order me around like everyone else, Vi. That's what I hate about all you activities kids . .. think you're better than the rest of us."

An annoyed scoff. " How would you know what people in clubs are like if you aren't in one?"

"Well, how about I go out and join the soccer team next year? Mike rebuttled. "Or Key Club." And then a glance to ever, silent Veruca. "Hell, maybe I'll run for student council."

"We wouldn't take you," puffs of icy air practically swirled from Veruca's lips.

_She speaks_.

Mike's hand pressed against his heart. "Ouch. That really hurt me, Veruca."

"I'm in the BotsIQ this year," a small voice piped up, barely audible. Charlie.

Augustus glanced his way so he knew he at least heard him. He offered him a lopsided smile because he, too, didn't know what to do in this situation.

"You know why I think you're so anti-club?" Violet asked. Her voice was stiff, authoritative.

"Jesus," whispered Mike. "This is gonna be good. . ."

"It's because you're afraid," she said.

Mike snorted. "Afraid of what?"

"You're afraid of being rejected -of them not taking you. See, you feel like you don't belong anywhere, so you make fun of those who_ do_ and their place," Violet told him.

"Well, thanks for that gripping analysis, Vi. But what if it's because all of you activities people are total assholes?" There was no getting through to him. He was a Lost Cause, and Augustus could tell that Violet was just ready to let the whole thing go.

"I'm in the Young Engineers Club, too," Charlie added, feeling like he needed to contribute to this tension situation.

This time around, Mike finally caught notice and looked Charlie's way. "One moment, Vi." He excuse himself and then looked to Charlie. "What are you talking about?"

"I was just saying that I'm in the BotsIQ club and Young Engineers," Charlie repeated. "We build robots and then compete against other schools to see whose robot can outlast a battle. And then in the Young Engineers, we work on all kinds of things- a lot of us like to make models and invent. But, we're always looking for new members. . ."

Mike cut him off. "I bet you are."

And just like Augustus, Charlie was becoming more timid with each lashing of Mike's sarcasm. "I was just saying because you're in my Robotics class and you like technology, so if you wanted to join a club . . ."

"Hey, Veruca!" Mike was chasing after the attention of the girl behind Augustus yet again. "Would you like to join the Young Engineers club and give nerds like Chuck here the most female interaction they'll have in years?"

"That's an academic club," Veruca told him. "I don't join those."

"And why not?" Mike really was pressing to her.

Augustus turned around and saw the other girl dryly reply, "They're not the same as social clubs"

"Ah, but to guys like Chuck -" a jest towards Charlie's general direction "- they are." Mike then looked to Augustus. "And what about you, Lard? Are you in any clubs?"

He hated being on the spotlight again. "Uh… Marching Band," Augustus managed to say. He knew that being in the band wasn't very high up on the high school hierarchy. But it was the closest he had to a niche in this school. There was no lunch table full of fat foreign students.

Mike's eyebrow was raised, perhaps generally intrigued for the first time all detention. "What do you play?"

"Tuba, " Augustus admitted. The two people Augustus truly deemed his friends were the only other two tuba players in the marching band. "Us tuba-players gotta stick together," one of the guys, Josh, had told Augustus the first day of band camp.

Mike's nodded like he _was expecting that answer that Augustus played tuba_.

Huh.

"As much as you guys are becoming buddy-buddy, could you please be keep your gossiping to a minimum," Violet said, and Augustus glanced over to see that she returned to writing her essay, something he should be doing. "I have soccer practice today and I'm not missing it because you two wouldn't shut your pie holes."

He took another chomp of his Wonka bar.

"Wouldn't that be a tragedy," Mike said sarcastically. Augustus could sense that he was going to say something but he suddenly stopped.

The sound of a chair loudly squeaking out from underneath a body. Footsteps followed. Turkentine.

Mike sat back down besides Augustus and crossed his arms while the other man pretended to be stuck between _Strolch_ (masculine; idler, tramp, vagabond) and _Stück_ (neuter; piece, bit,part, fragment) in the German-English dictionary.

Everyone went back to work or sat silently, just like good little juvenile delinquents.

Peering up from _Strudel_ (masculine; eddy, whirlpool, vortex), Augustus watched Turkentine through the open door. He went down the hallway, out of view. The sound of footsteps disappeared as well.

"Where do you think he went?" Augustus asked.

"The john, probably, " Mike reasoned as he got up from his seat

Ever the voice of reason, Charlie said, "Mike, you're gonna get caught . . ."

Mike glanced over his shoulder at the other boy condescendingly. "Don't you have a paper to write, Bucket?" And with that he went straight to the library's heavy double doors. Only one had been propped open for Turkentine to cast a glance every so often into the students. With stealth, Mike stood up on the balls of his feet and carefully played with a screw on the top of the door.

"Cut it out, Mike!" Charlie warned, his voice still timid but determined. "You're going to get in trouble for messing with school property. . ."

The door slammed with a tempered bang.

Mik raced back to his seat behind Charlie and Violet.

"Fix it, Mike!" Violet voice's was nearly at a yelling level, a hot ball of white anger. "You're going to give us all detention next week!"

"Like you wouldn't like to spend another Saturday with me," Mike said. "Relax, Vi, I've been here before. I know what I'm doing." He tossed the screw up in the air and caught it.

"Mike, just put it back." Charlie's voice didn't have an urgency to it. Augustus believed that he was going for the nice, quiet approach to coax the other boy to do the right thing.

Violet on the other hand, was desperate.

"Just put it back, you moron!" She was exasperated now.

"Watch your mouth," Mike said, waggling his finger like a teacher. "How would your coach feel if you used the 'm' word?"

"_Fix the door!"_ Violet made a desperate grab to try and snatch the screw away from the guy, but despite her soccer-star reflexes, she didn't manage to grab it because it _disappeared before their eyes_.

The door opened. Turkentine stepped in.

"Why is the door closed?" He asked briskly.

"I wouldn't know, Mr. Turkentine," Mike said, looking lax and unconcerned about the possibility of yet another detention. "We were here, just writing our essays."

"Charlie Bucket." Turkentine looked down at the smaller boy. "Do you know why the door is shut?"

From the (he glanced at the clock a split second) nearly thirty minutes he had know Charlie, Augustus could guess that he was a morally aligned kid. He wouldn't lie about something like this.

"I - I wouldn't know, Mr. Turkentine," Charlie said. "I was just sitting here doing my essay."

Huh.

"Herr Gloop." Turkentine's head snapped towards Augustus' direction. He must have wanted to double check the truth.

Well, if Charlie could do it, so should Augustus. "I don't know, Mr. Turkentine."

"Perhaps a _screw_ fell out?" Violet's voice piped out. There was a hint of annoyance in her voice. Perhaps she was hinting that maybe it wasn't all just gravity in action at shutting the library door.

Turkentine was quicker than given credit for (or perhaps he was still suspicious and hadn't noticed Violet's inflection), because he asked, "Well, who stole the screw?" He was talking to everyone, but his focus was on Mike.

"Why would anyone want to steal a screw?" Silent-no-more Veruca said. Apparently everyone was making the effort to cover Mike's butt now. Probably with the idea they would get everyone out of serving another detention. Augustus certainly didn't want another Saturday like this for something like a stolen screw. His first fall into detention at least worth it for that cake.

"Screws fall out all the time," Augustus told Turkentine. "It just happens."

Turkentine could take that, but there was no way he was going to leave five teenagers all alone in the library. Shenanigans were sure to follow. So, he picked up the chair besides Augustus and dragged it over to prop open the door.

"Mr. Turkentine, the door is too heavy," Charlie said quietly. "It won't hold . . ." Obviously, the teacher didn't hear the warning. He went straight to wedging the chair against the door, but as soon as he walked away, momentum set into action and the poor little seat was squashed awkwardly.

Mike snickered. Turkentine cursed.

Despite that first attempt and the head of warning from Mike ("It's not going to work, idiot.") Turkentine threatening as he tried to keep the door open ("Do you want another Saturday, Teavee?"), the teacher tried twice more before giving up.

He looked around the room and saw a heavy rack of newspapers and magazines. And then glanced towards Augustus's bigger frame. "Augustus Gloop, come and help me push this," he called out.

"How come Gus gets to stand up?" Mike asked as Augustus shuffled himself towards the teacher.

"If you would like to help me push this extremely heavy magazine cart, Mr. Teavee, then by all means be my guest!" Turkentine told him as he and Augustus tried to push the rack in between the door.

Despite his . . . robust shape, Augustus did have some strength. He did handle a lot of heavy things in the butcher's shop on an almost daily basis, so it wasn't anything difficult to push the rack. Although in the process, he managed to crimp a few pages of one of those trashy American tabloids as he shoved the rack towards the door.

"What if there's a fire?" Mike asked.

"What?" Turkentine asked.

"What if there is a fire?" Mike repeated. "Putting that magazine rack in the door is a fire hazard. Surely you wouldn't want to endanger a bunch of kids."

Turkentine sighed and said to Augustus, "Help me put this back."

Augustus did.

He returned to his seat and Turkentine once again stood in front of the whole group. He looked back to Mike and informed, "I'll have you know that you're not fooling me, Mr. Teavee. And you're not fooling anyone else, despite their apparent loyalty." He looked around to the group. "If I have to to come in here again, it's yellow detention tickets for everyone."

Turkentine disappeared back into his classroom across the hall, shutting the door behind him.

"I can't believe I lied to him," Charlie Bucket moaned, slumping down in his seat and covering his head with his hands.

"You'll live," Mike assured.

Violet went back to her essay, as did Charlie and Veruca. Mike closed his eyes and drifted off.

Augustus looked back down at the few sad sentence he had written down. He crumpled it into a ball, deciding to start all over again in the search for his soul. He took the final bite at his Wonka bar, crumpled the red, white, and silver wrapping into one colossal ball with his few fragmented German sentences.

He shot towards the garbage can.

Missed.

And decided he'd pick it up later as he wiped away the dust from his eraser, pulled out a new piece of paper, and a Wonka Nutty Crunch Surprise.


	8. What Will Be Will Be

**AN: New chapter is finally up~ I definitely tried to find my own route with the story because some of the plot lines don't match up with how I envisioned the characters, so there are some differences here. As a side note, the reason why **_**Brave New World**_** (one of my personal favorites, BTW) is mentioned is because of a past conversation with my sister. One of the main themes of the book and the Charlie musical is consumerism. In the musical, they really play around with the theme that the four Golden Ticket winners are just greedy consumers of things (food/money/attention/media) while Charlie is the only one who actually **_**creates**_** rather than just guzzle up resources. I really loved that inclusion so it seemed fitting I could tie it in with one of my favorite novels in a fanfic about one of my favorite two movies. **

**Two final notes on Augustus' character that I never addressed but meant to: I don't do phonetic German accents. I find it clunky and awkward to read and write, so I believe it's just better to imagine it as you read it for yourself. Second, ****I believe Augustus is just kind of a lax person, not really getting too worked up about things and taking life how it comes. He seemed kinda mellow in the 1971 film, so I ran with it. Hence the later conversation in this chapter with Veruca.  
**

**Thank you again to the lovely reviews/favorites/follows~ Going to answer a few here:**

**Dead-Rogs: Yes, Mike is an asshole but I'm glad you can see that he's likeable. Hopefully he's not too much of an ass in the chapter? (Hopefully?) And yeah, Augustus seems to be the one with the least amount of character, so he was quite a challenge to make him seem believable and enjoyable. I really loved him and his family in the musical, so I hope I stuck true by their characters. **

**Veruca P: Thank you so much, Jillian. I'm so thankful people enjoyed my take on Augustus.**

**Hispaniola'sCaptain: I've been trying to stray a little more from the dialogue in the chapters and those to follow because the character arches have been changed up from how they are in the movie. But I'm really glad you think I made these characters 3-D (that was my whole intention) and thank you for complimenting the style of writing I've been trying out. My whole goal was to help carry out the characters' thoughts through it and I'm glad to hear that I'm accomplishing that~**

**On with the show, then. **

Who in their right would ever want to spend another Saturday with Michael Teavee?

Or any other day, for that matter, Veruca asked to herself. She could hardly looking at him, with his ridiculous spiked hair, ugly (stolen mostly from father's closet) plaid shirt layered over a grey _South Park_ tee-shirt with the phrase (ironic given the situation) "Screw you guys, I'm going home" written in bold red lettering.

She looked back to her paper and the several notes and doodles that had accumulated on the blue lines. She knew she had to write this horrid paper sometime or another, but she wasn't exactly up to it right now. A few awkward drafts of the opening line headed the paper, but the further you looked down, it suddenly transformed into a packing list for her upcoming spring break trip to the Riviera. The packing list eventually became a shopping list, because she realized some of her older clothes wouldn't do.

It was the only thing to lift her spirits.

If you could call daydreaming as something to lift one's spirits while in detention.

But anyway, she was glad that everyone had collectively agreed to cover Mike's incident with the door. The prospect of another detention was looming overhead constantly, but they had avoided it. _For now_.

She would absolutely die if she had to spend another Saturday with _any_ of these people.

Pencils scribbled all around her.

Violet Beauregarde had the gall to pop in another piece of gum and snap it in the most absurd fashion. It positively echoed.

The fat German kid (Augustus, right?) in front of her had pulled out another Wonka Bar as he skimmed through the dictionary. Snack total: 3. How vile, getting chocolate all over a library book. But, given the previous incident with the boy's detention ticket, it really was no surprise to Veruca that he wouldn't want to be sanitary.

Mike started to make an Air Force of paper planes. He made Violet his target first. She crumpled it into a ball and threw it into the trashcan. Then he decided to bomb Augustus. Augustus looked down at the paper air plane, but didn't do anything. He just continued working.

Sighing, Veruca looked up to the mocking clock.

7:45.

Time ticked on.

Violet tapped her eraser against the table to a nameless tune.

Charlie took a break from writing and pulled out a little notebook from within his coat pocket, doodling something within the pages. He tapped on his chin with the pen for a few brief seconds. Pondered. Returned to doodling for a few minutes before getting back to the essay.

7:57.

A whole hour had passed since Veruca had stepped foot into this horrible library.

She suddenly remembered when she was younger and had to wait for something (hardly ever regarding things she wanted but like kids she had to wait patiently for Christmas/summer holiday/spring holidays/her birthday).She would yell to her father, "_Make time go faster!_"

She wanted to scream to the clock like she did when she was nine years old.

8:04

Augustus pulled out an orange. At least he was mixing in healthier food with the Wonka bars? Snack count: 4.

Veruca doodled a lovely sundress with a floppy hat. Perfect for the yacht.

8:23.

Mike pulled out a cigarette lighter and a packet of Camel Lights. Violet heard the flick of lighter, turned around, and gave Mike the Dirty Look. She kept her voice down in fear Turkentine would storm over and it would start raining detention tickets."I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to give us all lung cancer."

"You'll set off the fire alarm," Charlie told Mike, like Mike would actually care about disrupting a whole house of firemen for a false alarm.

But for some reason he decided to care this time.

Mike scowled, scoffed, and stuffed the cigarette back into the packet, defeated for once. He'll find one way or another to smoke, Veruca knew it.

8:51

Augustus stopped writing and settled his head down onto the table top. Veruca heard his heavy breathing as he was knocked out into sleep.

And she followed his lead. Saturdays she usually slept until noon, so this hour was about four hours before she would just be rousing from her bed. She might as well find some way to sneak some of that lost beauty sleep into this waste of a weekend.

Her head went down on the table and she closed her eyes. The bleak library disappeared instantly and Veruca dreamt of Paris.

Apparently, like the infamous poppy field from _The Wizard of Oz_, a sleeping spell was cast over all five children. And Turkentine was the snowfall - cold, unpleasant, and rousing.

"Wake up!"

Paris vanished.

Veruca was shook awake. She heard Augustus snort in front of her. She was too lazy to raise her head and look directly up to the teacher. Her eyes scanned up to Mr. Turkentine standing with his World's Best Teacher mug. Veruca could only guess what number refill he was on.

"Who here has to use the lavatory?"

Veruca raised her hand as did everyone else.

Still groggy from her brief nap, Veruca awkwardly stood up and stretched, shaking the sleep off of herself. She betted that she looked like a fright right now, makeup smeared, hair matted down on one side. Ugh. She might as well fix herself up while they went to the lou, so she went to her backpack and pulled out her pocketbook containing the bare essentials just for touchups.

She had to wait for everyone to stand up and for Turkentine to lead them out down the hallway towards the cafeteria, where the closest restroom was located. For some reason, she remembered a comment made by Mike Teavee earlier that day about having to be locked up in handcuffs just to go to the toilet or something of that nature.

Well, he was right. A little bit. Although there was no physical restraint, she felt as though they were in a chain gang as Turkentine made them walk in a single file line as stood in front of them, leading them to a place they were all capable of finding.

After Veruca used to restroom, she examined herself in the mirror. Not too bad. Some foundations had rubbed off, but her hair wasn't in terrible shape. She pulled out the small clasp of pale powder and the small powder puff.

"What's with the makeup?" A voice said behind her.

Violet.

Ugh.

Violet walked up and washed her hands in the sink next to Veruca and casted a sideways glance to her as she skillfully applied foundations."Are you trying to impress someone or something?"

"No," Veruca told her plainly. And that was the truth. There was no one there worthy of making the effort.

But Violet pressed on.

"Is it that Charlie guy?" Violet teased.

"Absolutely not," Veruca said. _Someone somewhere_ might find Charlie's utter homeliness attractive, but definitely not Veruca.

"How about _Augustus_?"

"Revolting!" Veruca exclaimed. How could anyone find that _walrus_ likeable? This girl sure loved to inch under her skin!

She threw her compact and powder puff into the purse and walked out. Who was Violet Beauregarde to judge Veruca on wearing makeup this morning? She was wearing one of those ghastly-looking tracksuits, that looked like something one of those old men who speed walk around the mall would wear after all. Just because Veruca felt more comfortable with makeup didn't mean she was trying to flirt with anyone.

Turkentine returned them to that holding pen of a library where time stood still. Veruca glanced at the clock and saw that it was a little over ten.

Only five more hours.

She decided to get back to writing that essay just to get the accursed thing out of the way. So did everyone else, apparently. Everyone else except for Mike, of course. He got out of his seat and grabbed a book off the counter in the _free books!_ bin. Violet chided him with the usual argument, but he, of course, never listened.

He tore a page out of the book.

"That's really intelligent," Violet sneered as he made a paper airplane out of the text.

"Hey, they're free," Mike defended pointing to the box.

"So that doesn't excuse destroying literature," she said flatly. Two hours into a detention, she must have been well aware that she wasn't going to win any battles against him. But she sure as hell was going to try.

"If you want to file a complaint, talk to Doris Teavee," Mike said casually as he tore out a few pages. Words fluttered into the air as he tossed them. "She used to drag me to that lame-ass reading club thing at the library every summer." _Rip_. Another page gone. "'_Reading is fun!_'" _Rip_. "What a joke." _Rip_. "Adolf Huxley is thrilling."

"_Aldous_ Huxley," Violet corrected. A quick glance at the cover page told Veruca that the book Mike was ripping to shreds was _Brave New World_.

"I read that once," Charlie said out of the blue. "It was an interesting book."

"I had to read it for a college prep course in the ninth grade," Violet said.

"I think if you read it, Mike, you'd like it." There Charlie went again, making suggestions. His helpfulness was annoying. "It's kinda like science fiction-esque."

"Oh yeah?" Mike casted a sideways glance to Charlie as he tore out another page. "Any robots? Aliens?"

"Well . . . no."

"Not interested," Mike said. Another page gone. Aldous's words were now crumpled balls. He tossed one at Augustus' shoulder, but the other boy didn't say anything. His spine was as soft and flabby as his exterior.

Thank God he had other people to stand up for him."Would you cut that out?" Violet demanded. Although, when Veruca thought about it, she probably was defending the book more than Augustus.

"There's not to do much in this prison."

Augustus took the ball of paper and flattened it out. Took a moment to read the page. "Hey, I have read this before," he said, then sheepishly admitted, "Only the first chapter or two, because it really was quite boring. The factory part was weird."

"Factories are the puppet strings in the dump of a town," Mike said, tossing the book aside and sitting on the counter, squished between the computer and the book bin. "One shuts down -" a glance to Veruca "- another moves in."

Veruca scowled. "We saved this town and you know it."

And it was true, from what Veruca was aware. Hundreds of workers from Wonka's colossal plant had been fired from about four years prior to Salt Salty Nuts moving in when the crazy chocolatier decided to shut his company down completely. A whole community left out of their jobs, their livelihood gone with the shutting of wrought iron gates. _What better place to build their American plant?_ Her father decided.

Not like Veruca really cared that much about her father's business as long as it was doing well enough to keep their lifestyle the same or better.

"Wow. How conceited can you get? " Mike scoffed.

"But it's true." Veruca was still sitting tall and firm against Mike.

"Do you ever wonder what it's like inside Wonka's Chocolate Factory?" Charlie asked, sudden and to no one in particular.

"I hate chocolate," Mike said. "So I really don't care."

"I think it's heaven," Augustus said to Charlie, but Mike didn't really care what Augustus (as well as everyone else) and there was not much of a conversation to be started from a comment like that. So his reply went unnoticed.

Suddenly Violet's head popped up from her essay. "Crap!"

"Crap what?" Mike implored.

"I need to reschedule my tutoring session!" Violet, bit her knuckle. "I completely forgot about!"

"What would Miss Ivy League possibly need tutoring for?" Mike asked, his voice drained with annoyance (obviously) and something like exhaustion. Exhaustion for having to listen to Violet Beauregarde's perfectionism problems.

"_I _don't need tutoring, but I'm tutoring another girl in math," Violet said, her hand dipped down towards her bag, as if to reach for her phone. "I need to text her. . . but if I take out my phone, Turkentine could see. . . " A moral dilemma.

"Is this how you spend your weekend?"

"With soccer practices and karate lessons, yes." Violet's hand pulled back. Then back in, reaching for a hideous looking flip phone. My god, what decade was this girl living in?

A revolted look spread across Mike's face."Why?"

"Because colleges look for students with volunteer hours and extracurricular activities," she told him frankly, then looked back down back down. Who, at sixteen years old, said 'extracurricular activities'? She really was going for this grandpa thing. "I'll ask Mr. Turkentine later, I guess."

"So, wait. Lemme get this straight. You spend five days a week at school and then you spend your other two days working your ass off _for_ school?"

"Yes."

Mike mumbled something.

Charlie piped up. "I think balancing all of those activities is admirable, Violet. I wish I had your organization."

This kid couldn't possibly be human, right? Right? Everything that came out his mouth was just so sickeningly nice, it made Veruca cringe.

"What, you don't devote your weekend to helping the homeless too, Chuck? You don't spend them at the soup kitchen?"

Charlie's answer was a little quiet, a little uncertain but was ultimately a "No."

"And I take it that Veruca and Gus don't volunteer, either."

"I work," Augustus said plainly. And went back to his essay.

"I have plans," Veruca said. She wanted to go back to her essay.

But Charlie had to further the conversation and ask questions. "What were your plans for this weekend?"

"Well, I _was_ going to a party tonight, but my father said that I'm grounded, but my mother told me that I might still be able to go. But that's just my parents, my mother puts on the doting and obedient act at first but then going against my father's requests behind his back. It's incredibly bothersome."

Wait, what?

Did that just come out of her mouth? All of that?

Mike was back at the book again, ripping out a few more pages."Who do you like better?"

"Excuse me?" Veruca couldn't believe he had the gall to ask a question like that. Or rather, she could but she was not expecting to be asked something like that.

"You heard me. Who do you like better out of your parents?"

Her father was a very busy man but made some time for her every day, even if it was for two minutes late at night. He gave her everything she could ever want, always made sure that her credit card balance was met. Her mother? Well. . . she was a socialite who didn't attempt to make too much time for Veruca, but she let her get away with murder practically and was a good secret keeper for when things fell under don't tell daddy. But despite that. . .it was her dad. Yeah. It had always been her father. She had always been a daddy's girl.

"My father," she ruled, shrugging. "I mean, I don't see much of him anymore, but at least he makes the effort even though he's busy."

"So if it ever came to that -" _divorce_ was silent - "you'd stay with him?"

"It's not going to come to that," Veruca assured, more for herself than for Mike. "Daddy -"

"Hold, on. You still call your father '_daddy_'? What are you, five?"

Veruca bit her lip, sat up a little straight. "My_ father_," she corrected, then continued, "lives a separate life from my mother. They have a mutual agreement now to not mingle, unless it involves me."

In sixteen years, one daughter, two factory plants, millions of dollars, the two had grown apart.

It happens all the time.

Life goes on.

But Veruca seemed to be the only thing that would hold these two in common. (That, and of course, the Salt fortune.) She was the bridge between their two different worlds, but at the same time the issues surrounding her life that they shared was a wall between them, a difference of opinion.

She was the glue and the divider.

"Of course, I want them to agree on_ something_ once in a while," she said wistfully. "I don't think father is accompanying us to France during Spring Break -"

"Poor little rich girl," Mike grumbled. "You're just feeling sorry for yourself."

"Well, if I didn't feel sorry for my horrid situation, then who else would?"

Mike wiped away a fake tear. "You're breaking my heart." He looked away and crossed his arms over his body, _Brave New World_ still in hand. "There are people with more fucked up families out there than you." He looked over to Violet. He favored her. "How about you Sporto?"

"Is that your nickname for me? It's really clever." Two could play at the sarcasm game.

But Mike ignored the comment. "Do you get along with your parents?"

"It's just me and my mom right now," she said. Obviously a product of divorce, Veruca decided from the brief quote. If her mother was anything like the daughter, she couldn't blame the man. "And I don't have any problems with her. But if I say that, you think I'm some goodie-two-shoes or something?"

"You already are, but for the record, if you say that you don't have _some_ beef about your mom, then you're a liar as well." Mike tossed _Brave New World_ against the trash can, and it felt with a graceless _thud_ next to Augustus' Wonka wrapper/essay paper ball.

"I'm not a liar!" Violet said, infuriated. She rose to her feet, leaning across the table towards Mike. "Not all of us have a screwy as a family as the one you're not telling us about."

Mike's middle fingers rose. A double salute.

This was the boiling point, Charlie knew it. He stood up as quick as he could, the chair almost falling from underneath him as he laid one arm across Violet's chest, a safety precaution, and soothed one hand against her back. Without it, she would have snapped and gone animalistic.

"That's enough," Charlie said in the odd mix of stern and quiet. He cleared his throat. "If it's any consolation, I don't always get along with my mother and fathers either . . ."

"Says the parent's wet dream." Charlie was stifled by Mike's lude comment, but he still held Violet back. "Chuck, sit the hell down and make yourself a better citizen or some shit. You and Lard over there with your nineteen-fifties' sitcom-ready families." He motioned to Augustus with a curt nod of his head.

"What makes you think I have nothing against my parents?" Augustus asked, eyebrow raised.

"Jesus, Lard, you look like your mother dressed you," Mike said. "Does she go with you to Casual Male XL and help you shop?"

Augustus never responded about the clothes thing, but to Veruca, the answer was pretty obvious. He mumbled something in German, so she never heard his answer. He pulled out another Wonka bar. A comfort eater.

"Why do you have to insult everyone, Mike?" Charlie asked, a little louder than Augustus but actually heard by Mike.

"I'm being honest," Mike defended. "If I don't tell the truth, then who will?"

"But you don't have to be so harsh about it," Charlie said.

"Yeah, well life is harsh." Mike went back to fiddling with the librarian's table. Books tumbled out of the bin and he sorted through them.

They were quiet for a few more minutes, a mutual agreement before going back to hold the same positions they had prior (three writing, one doodling, one messing around). The clock ticked seconds along, Violet's gum snapped.

Same old, same old.

Veruca watched out of the corner of her eye as Violet reached over to her gym bag and pulled out the packet of Juicy Fruit and popped in another piece. A double wad stuffed into her mouth and the snapping intensified.

"Do you have to chew your gum like that?" Mike grumbled. For once, he spoke for the collective. Veruca was unsure how much she could take of Violet Beauregarde's cow-chewing.

Violet looked up casually and apologized curtly. "Sorry." Then went back to her paper. And popping her chewing gum.

Well, she certainly didn't know how to take a hint. Or a flat-out criticism.

"How do you even have friends?" He asked her critically, squinting his eyes at her like she was some specimen under the microscope .

"Excuse me?!" Violet was as tense as a cat, fiercely on her guard.

"Your gum chewing is really obnoxious," he said coolly. "I pity everyone who has to put up with it on a daily basis."

"It's better than smoking like _some people_," she said, crossing her arms, defensively. "It's a much better habit."

"But not by much," he retorted. "No guy is ever going to want to put up with that, you know. I mean, imagine Frenching with gum still in your mouth."

"You're disgusting. "

Violet made the valiant effort to return to her paper, but to little avail when Mike Teavee got in the way.

"But I doubt you have time for that. Too busy for boys, right? With your tae-kwon-do and tutoring and whatever the hell you because I honestly can't keep track of it all do to creep into the basement, with a boy, lay down on the couch and have him feel you up-"

"Can you please stop it? Can't you see she's uncomfortable?" Charlie asked, sterner than before. When the Sex Card was played in a conversation, everyone got defensive.

"Too busy for anyone, I can guess. That's why you're always alone at lunch because you set everyone off with that gum chewing and that obnoxious competitor thing. Nobody wants to sit by a know-it-all - "

Enough was enough.

Violet exploded.

"_Shut up_!" She roared as the chair beneath her fell.

She shoved Mike back and he tumbled but caught himself before he fell flat on his ass. Charlie tried to grab for Violet's shoulders and pull her back into her seat (maybe slip her some tranquilizer because she sure as hell needed one then)

"You think you're so tough, but I can beat your sorry butt! I could send you to the ER in two minutes, so leave me alone!"

Veruca had no idea how Mike could keep his temper so even after being threatened by a girl like Violet, but he did. Eerie stillness in his voice. "Oh, yeah?"

"I have a black belt in karate," she told him. "So don't talk to me anymore - don't even _think_ about me anymore- and sit down, and write your stupid essay!"

"I'm just trying to help you," Mike said calmly, dusting himself off.

All of a sudden, one of the doors in the back of the library open. The sound of a cart's awkward, squeaky wheels along with an obnoxiously loud commercial blaring from a radio. Veruca (as well as everyone else) snapped their heads towards the direction of the radio. In had shuffled the weekend janitor - a rotund man with thinning hair and dressed in a stained grey tee-shirt with equally dirty jeans. His cherry-red face was scuffed with facial hair with Coke-bottle glasses perched on the end of his nose.

He wheeled his cart towards them, but caught notice of Charlie.

"Charlie Bucket!"

"Hello, Randy," Charlie said quietly.

The man stopped his cleaning car and leaned up against it, like if what he had just witnessed was so horrific, he needed some sort of support. "What are you doing here?"

"Serving detention," Charlie shamefully admitted.

"I can see that," the janitor noted, motioning with a nod of his head. "Who would ever believe that Charlie Bucket got detention?"

"That seems to be the collective response," Mike said, but Randy ignored him and wheeled around the group of detention-servers towards the trashcan. He started to pick up the assorted pages of _Brave New World_, lined paper, and Wonka bar wrappers that's trajectory had failed.

"I'd appreciate it if you kids didn't litter, makes my day a whole lot easier," he grumbled under his breath as he picked up Augustus' candy wrapper.

"Hey, Randy, I have a question," Mike said, out of the blue as he stuffed the various Aldous Huxley writings into the plastic bag.

"Shoot," was Randy's reply.

"What does it take to become a janitor?"

"You wanna become a janitor?" Randy asked, and leaned up against the cart again. This was the second most unbelievable thing he heard all day.

"No, but Chuck here is interested," Mike said motioning to the flushed younger boy in front of them.

Randy was not amused.

"You think my job is a joke, don't you Mike? That I'm some untouchable? Well, here's something for you. After a decade of cleaning up your spilled milk in the cafeteria and fixing your busted desks, I've learned a lesson or two from you kids. I hear all your gossip, I go through your lockers, I read your little love-notes. Nothing gets by without me noticing." Having said his two cents, Randy backed up his cart and shuffled it back out towards the screw-less door.

Veruca would have never let _her_ help get that mouthy with her without giving them a kick in the pants out the door, pink slip in hand.

"And by the way, the clock is broken," he said over his shoulder. "It's twenty minutes fast."

A choir of five tortured children groaning featuring the solo of Mike Teavee slamming his fist and crying out, "_God damnit!_"

They got Charlie to fix the clock to the correct time and set everyone's mind at ease.

10:25.

An hour clicked on by without incident. Nobody talked about anybody's relationship issues. There was no close-call smack downs. Augustus's snack count rose to seven. It was rather uneventful, actually. A little on the boring side, once Veruca reflected on it. The theatrics were fun to watch.

She wrote a little bit of her essay because what else was there to do?

Relief finally came at around 11:30 when Turkentine brisked back into the room. "Alright, you have a half hour for lunch."

"It's lunch time?!" Augustus asked, and Veruca could hear the excitement that coated his voice.

"Did I stutter, Mr. Gloop?" Turkentine's own voice had a chuckle of amusement to it.

Augustus might have died and gone to heaven as he scrambled to grab the immense paper bag tucked under his table.

"Are we eating here?" Mike asked. Veruca looked over and saw that he had once again put his feet on the table and was leaning dangerously back on the chair.

"Do you have a problem with this arrangement, Mr. Teavee?"

"Doesn't it seem better to eat in the cafeteria than here?" he asked.

"Michael Teavee, you would make everyone's life easier if you just kept your opinions to yourself," Turkentine said with a sigh. "Here should do. Any other complaints before I leave?"

"Yeah, can I get something to drink? I'm thirsty."

Mike's response triggered an outcry from everyone else, including Veruca who just noticed that she could have used a drink as well. Five dehydrated children was something that Mr. Turkentine didn't want to deal with.

"I'll go and get something," Mike said as he pushed the seat out from underneath him but the teacher was quick to stop him.

"Given your past transgressions, Mr. Teavee, there is no way in hell I'm sending you out."

Turkentine then looked over to the other side of the room where he saw Augustus feverously dig through the paper bag food and Veruca sitting still like a normal person. "Miss Salt and Mr. Gloop can go."

_Great_. Now she had to spend time with Augustus to get drinks for everyone. That was just the cherry on the icing of this rotten day.

Mr. Turkentine turned back to his little private study room, most likely going to eat his own lunch away from the teenagers. And if that meant watching Augustus Gloop shovel food into his mouth, Veruca couldn't blame him from wanting to get away and eat in private.

Augustus went to the front of the group and asked, "What would everyone like to drink?"

Charlie: I would like some water, please.

Violet: Gatorade.

Mike: Scotch.

Augustus:

Mike: Mountain Dew is fine.

Together Augustus and Veruca shuffled out of the library and down the stretch of hallway towards the vending machine near the gymnasium.

"I don't know if I have enough to cover for the all drinks," Augustus confessed to Veruca. "I only brought enough to get myself some things from the machine."

"I guess I'll cover the difference," she said with a sigh and crossed her arms. She wanted to pick up the pace and get the one-on-one time with Augustus over with as soon as possible. Of course, he was making the point to waddle at turtle speed.

"You don't sound like you're from here," he said after a moment.

"Well, neither do you," she retorted, noting his thick accent. In comparison her own British accent sound light to the other's clunky German.

Augustus chuckled and shoved his hands into his cardigan pockets. "When did you move here?"

"Three years," she said, sighing."But it feels like forever. Daddy wants us to stay until I finish high school here."

"I just moved from Germany over the summer," Augustus said.

"Why are you here?" She asked lightly.

"In detention?" He looked around awkwardly. "That is a bit of a story . . ."

This kid was awfully thick - literally and figuratively.

"No, I mean in America," she explained. "Moving from Germany when you're in the middle of high school seems rather weird. So are you a foreign exchange student?"

"My parents own a butcher shop on Linden Street," he told her. "Gloop Metzgerei, over by the library."

So she and Lard had something in common other than their accents - entrepreneur parents who wanted to expand their business, dragging their children all over the world to follow their careers. How very odd.

Of course, her father owned a billion-dollar corporation well-known throughout the food industry and Augustus' parents owned some meat shack. Why on earth would they make an international business venture?

"They just decided to pick up and move across the Atlantic?" She asked.

"My parents wanted to me to go an American college and they wanted to see the country," Augustus answered and shrugged. "So here we are."

"Did_ you _want to move?"

He shook his head. "No." He paused in the middle of the hallway before admitting, "My English is not that great and it has been hard adjusting to everything. But no use dwelling on the past now. It comes how it comes, yes?"

Veruca looked the other way. "I suppose."

_Que sera, sera_.

They were quiet for a few moments before, having run out of small talk before finally reaching their journey to the vending machine's end.


End file.
